


the panty thief

by bleep0bleep



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Car Sex, Lace Panties, M/M, Panties, Public Sex, Stripper Derek Hale, Stripper Stiles Stilinski, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Underwear Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-23 15:49:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7469604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleep0bleep/pseuds/bleep0bleep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles undulates, slowly unzipping the leather crop top, teasing the crowd with a peek at his nipples, and finally he shrugs out of it, glancing coquettishly over his shoulder.<br/>He falters and misses a step.<br/>What? Why is <i>Derek</i> sitting in the audience? In the front row, too?<br/>Stiles recovers quickly, getting right back into the dance. Fine. Derek wants to be a <i>customer? </i><br/>Stiles can play.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the panty thief

**Author's Note:**

  * For [literaryoblivion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/literaryoblivion/gifts).



> A very happy birthday to my dear dear Freck. I hope you have a wonderful day and enjoy these dorks and their panties <3
> 
> Thank you to [mad-madam-m](http://mad-madam-m.tumblr.com) for the beta-read!

Late, late, late. Fuck. Stiles dashes through the parking lot, cursing at the crowd of people lined up to get in the club. “Excuse me, I need to get through—”

“Hey, wait your turn!” a man snaps at him.

“I’m late!” Stiles says, but he’s barely audible over the loud pumping music emanating from the club. He rolls his eyes and pushes forward, trying to get to the door, but everyone is firmly holding their place in line. Stupid car accident on Fourth blocking the stage entrance and he’s barely going to make curtain at this rate. Lydia is going to fire him and then it’ll be the end of it, he won’t be able to pay for his tuition and he’ll have to slink back home to Beacon Hills without a degree and—

“Asshole, that’s _Red!”_ says a tall guy, shoving the rude man aside. “Let him through!”

The first guy turns and really looks at Stiles, his eyes widening. “Holy shit, I’m so sorry, Red. Go ahead.” He clears his throat, cupping his hands to his face and calls out in a loud, firm voice. “Hey, Little Red is late, people, let’s let him get through!”

The sea of club-goers parts, and Stiles gets a few wolf whistles despite the fact that he’s still wearing the plaid shirt, Batman tee and jeans he threw on for school earlier today. He blushes and nods at Boyd guarding the door.

“Cutting it close,” Boyd says, shaking his head.

Stiles gives him a sarcastic thumbs up and dashes inside, narrowly avoiding patrons crowding the tiny tables that surround the catwalk. He makes a beeline for the right and ducks into the stage door. Danny’s almost done with his dance; he’s already doing the split he saves for his big finale.

The dressing room is dimly lit and a mess, glitter and sequins everywhere. Stiles undresses quickly, throwing his clothes into his locker with lightning speed. He bends over the pile of costumes— someone must have tipped over the rack, everything is a mess and on the floor. He finds pieces of his leather outfit— booty shorts, crop top, but where are—?

A blast of cool air-conditioned air rushes through the dressing room from the door. Stiles ignores it and whoever just walked in; everyone’s seen him naked before.

The person behinds him takes in a sharp, impressed breath. Stiles resists the urge to smirk; yeah, he knows he’s got a great ass. He doesn’t have time to appreciate it, though, because he can hear the closing notes of Danny’s song. Stiles has _seconds._

Finally he spots his red panties; he unclips them from its hanger and pulls on the lace and then hastily the rest of his outfit, cursing at the leather sticking to his shins. Finally all of the pieces are on and Stiles is ready to go.

“Stiles—”

Oh fuck, why now? And of _course_ Derek looks delicious today; he isn’t even in his firefighter outfit yet, well he does have time, he doesn’t go on until much later tonight. He’s wearing jeans and a henley that hugs his biceps in all the right places and Stiles really really wants to angrily flirt with Derek as is their usual (but not enough for Derek to think that Stiles actually likes him, because Stiles does _not,_ they are _rivals,_ okay, they’ve been rivals ever since Stiles started working here and Derek glared at him for taking the best show time).

Ever since then, whenever they’re on the same shift it’s a game of who can get more tips, do the better dance, the more acrobatic moves. For months they’ve been neck to neck, trying to outdo the other, and Stiles is kind of tired of it, actually.

He… likes Derek.

It’s a secret.

He knows Derek strips to put his sister through med school, knows that Derek was in college when there was a huge family tragedy and then his uncle took off with the family inheritance, leaving him and his sisters to fend for themselves.

Stiles knows Derek likes to sing Frank Sinatra quietly to himself when they’re cleaning up for the night, puts in extra shifts for Lydia when she’s stressed with the club, knows he rescued a kitten last month and has been taking care of her.

But that first week Stiles got so caught up in their damn rivalry that he’s had to keep pretending to hate Derek, and then Derek pissed him off by accepting a tip with his butt cheeks and then Stiles had to learn how to do it and he actually _did_ hate him for awhile, but now he doesn’t hate Derek at all.

“Stiles,” Derek repeats, crossly, blocking his path.

Okay, maybe he does.

“I’m on right now!” Stiles hisses. “What the fuck are you doing?”

He can hear Lydia over the speakers, riling the crowd up. “Anyone out here lost in the woods?” she calls, and the crowd cheers. “Are you guys ready… for…”

The crowd roars in unison. _“LITTLE! RED! RIDING! HOOD!”_

“Whatever it is, Derek, it can wait until after my dance,” Stiles says, and shoves past Derek and walks through the curtain.

The lights are blinding and the music is deafening, but Stiles knows this routine by heart. He grins and flirts with the crowd, beckoning with his hands, shaking his hips to the beat, slow and sensual and teasing. Partially obscured by the red leather hood shrouding his face, Stiles works with the shadows, giving them just enough of his body and a bit of his face— eyes here or lips here— at a time to get them all worked up. When he finally tosses the hood back, people are chanting _“Red! Red! Red!”_

Stiles dances near enough to the crowd for them to stuff tens and twenties in his booty shorts, writhing and undulating as he goes. He takes off the removable hood and tosses it aside before beginning the more physical aspects of his dance.

Stiles grabs the pole and swings around it, using his core muscles to keep him aloft, slowly bringing him around to a balding dude flashing hundreds at him. He spreads his legs, winking at the man, who starts to sweat nervously. Stiles lets go of the pole and does a neat little flip, landing gracefully on his feet, cantering forward to the old man. He smirks. He hasn’t even started stripping yet and they’re already panting.

The man waves the hundred at him and Stiles takes it with his mouth, then turns around and gives the man a fantastic view of his ass as he gets into the next portion of the dance.

Everything is routine, routine, routine. Take the tips. Dance towards the back of the stage to throw all the bills in his box for now, come back for the strip tease.

Stiles undulates, slowly unzipping the leather crop top, teasing the crowd with a peek at his nipples, and finally he shrugs out of it, glancing coquettishly over his shoulder.

He falters and misses a step.

What? Why is _Derek_ sitting in the audience? In the front row, too?

Stiles recovers quickly, getting right back into the dance. Fine. Derek wants to be a _customer?_ Stiles can play. He hooks his thumbs into the waistline of his leather shorts, revealing the skin below his navel, almost dragging them down to his cock. Stiles cups himself, stroking himself through the leather lazily, staring at Derek.

Derek’s mouth falls open.

Stiles saunters forward; where Derek is sitting, he’s almost below the stage, and Stiles can thrust forward and _almost_ graze Derek’s lips with his hips.

He’s hard, he realizes. It happens sometimes during performances; sometimes Stiles gets turned on with the excitement of it all, feeling sexy and whatnot, but it’s different today, the way Derek’s eyes never leave his face, even as Stiles starts unzipping his shorts.

The zipper is mostly for show; Stiles turns around for the big finish rips the shorts off. The Velcro sound doesn’t even register against the music, and he grins as he hears the crowd scream in approval. Yes, his ass in red lace panties is amazing, yes he knows.

Stiles glances back to make sure Derek is watching— he is, with a focused stare that makes Stiles shiver.

The music picks up, and Stiles shakes his ass relentlessly to the beat, and then all of a sudden the crowd starts going wild like never before. The screams are deafening, and money is raining down on Stiles, fluttering green bills everywhere.

Stiles grins, about to do his final move or two and then gather up his tips and head backstage, but suddenly he’s heaved into the air, and a familiar ass is bouncing in front of him.

“Derek, what the _fuck—”_

Derek doesn’t answer, just keeps walking, carrying Stiles over his shoulder like he’s a bag of feathers. It isn’t until they’re backstage when Derek tosses Stiles unceremoniously onto the dressing room couch when Stiles notices the breeze.

He blinks and looks down, and his first thought is proud surprise at his own stamina, because he’s still hard.

And then he realizes.

“Where are my panties?” Stiles looks up at Derek, like he expects him to produce them out of thin air, or somehow Derek undressed him while he was on the stage, even though it seems ridiculous.

Derek scoffs. “You mean _my_ panties. You put on mine by mistake. I tried to tell you but you just ran onstage. They were a bit too big—”

“You mean _your_ ass is too big,” Stiles grumbles.

“Can we not do this right now?” Derek sighs. “Look, I dragged you in here because there are _rules_ , okay, what if there was someone inspecting the club right now, we can’t be flaunting regulation, you know.”

Stiles gulps. Right. The rules. Clothing has to be worn at all times, even if it’s at least a G-string.

Derek may have just saved him from getting the club fined.

“Okay, so that’s why you dragged me in here. But why were you in the crowd?” _Why were you watching me,_ Stiles wants to say.

Derek looks at him, biting his lip, and his ears turn pink. He glances down at Stiles, and then back up again.

Stiles can feel the heat of his gaze go right to his cock.

Derek licks his lips.

“Are you fucking serious?” Stiles declares. “You mean all this time I spent pretending not to want to bang your brains out you actually want to—”

“Oh God, yes,” Derek breathes, and surges forward and claims Stiles’ mouth in a kiss.

It’s hot and heady and demanding, and Stiles pulls Derek onto the couch immediately and climbs on top of him. The friction of Derek’s clothes feels amazing against his bare skin, and Stiles rocks his hips forward, grinding on Derek’s lap.

Derek is kissing him like he never wants to stop, groaning into it, running his fingers down Stiles’ back and then grabbing handfuls of his ass and squeezing.

The dressing room door opens, and Danny groans. “Seriously, can you guys not read? Look at the fucking sign.” He gestures at the sign hanging above the couch. _NO SEX ON COUCH AND DEFINITELY NOT IN LYDIA’S OFFICE EITHER._ “Get off the couch, Greenberg has to sleep on that tonight.”

Stiles scrambles off Derek’s lap, grabs the first piece of fabric he finds on the floor— hey, these are actually his red panties! He slips them on, barely decent the way the lace is straining over his cock, and holds out his hand to Derek.

Derek scowls at Danny and then eagerly takes Stiles’ hand, standing up from the couch. Stiles leads them out the back entrance and toward the parking lot, where Derek’s sex monster of a Camaro is gleaming in the streetlight. Stiles is barefoot, wearing nothing but a scrap of lace in the chilly night air, and he’s never felt more powerful in his life.

“Take me home?” Stiles asks, a slow, pleased smile stretching across his face.

Derek grins at him, a fond appreciation Stiles didn’t expect. He wants all the things. He wants to date Derek silly and also give him so many orgasms.

“I’ve got to dance at eleven,” Derek says.

Stiles nods. “That’s enough time.”

“Not for— oh. Yes.” Derek’s eyes gleam. He unlocks the car and opens the backseat door.

Stiles is clambering inside when Derek grips him by the hips, running a hand over the curve of his ass. The feeling of lace under Derek’s fingers and the soft, awed sigh from Derek makes him tremble.

He ducks his head, glancing around the backseat; Camaros aren’t known for being roomy. He wonders if Derek is going to—

Derek yanks the panties aside, exposing his hole to the night air. “Stiles,” he says, desperate.

“Yes, yes, fuck me, do it,” Stiles says.

Derek doesn’t waste time; he pulls a small bottle from the car door and smears his fingers with lube. Stiles gets a finger, and then two, thrust into him without abandon, stretching him out, teasing him. Derek works him until he’s aching with sensation, needing to be filled. His cock is leaking, panties soaked, and still Derek is fingerfucking him, stretching him until oblivion.

“Derek,” Stiles moans. “Come on. Fuck me, please.”

Finally he hears a zipper undone, and the sound of a condom foil.

The head of Derek’s cock presses against his hole, and Stiles groans with anticipation. “Move, Derek.”

“You want me,” Derek says, stroking the small of his back. “Come on, I wanna see that ass move like it was moving tonight. Everyone wanted a piece of you.”

Fuck. Stiles is so turned on he might explode, he wants Derek so badly right now. “Yeah, and I want you,” he says.

“Show me.”

Stiles takes a deep breath, slowly easing onto Derek’s cock, being filled inch by inch. It’s almost too much, but it feels so good. He starts to fuck himself slowly, and then picks up the pace, rocking back onto Derek’s length, chasing his pleasure.

The parking lot is dimly lit; at any moment someone could come out of the club and see them like this, Stiles naked and spread open and fucking himself on Derek, still clothed.

Stiles shudders, and Derek grabs his hip and starts fucking him in earnest, reaching with his other hand to grab his cock.

It’s quick and dirty, and the parking lot is silent aside from the filthy _slap slap slap_ of skin on skin. Derek’s thrusts go deep, each one making Stiles see stars.

“Fuck, Stiles, I’ve wanted you for so long,” Derek says breathily.

That’s all it takes, between Derek’s cock and the lace rubbing up against him everywhere and Derek’s hand stroking him, Stiles comes in white hot spurts. It’s everywhere, all over Derek’s hand and the panties and on his black leather seats.

Stiles is still riding the aftershocks when he feels Derek cry out, _“Stiles!”_

Derek pulls out; Stiles is still on his hands and knees in the backseat, barely able to think.

There’s a gentle tap on his ass.

“Come on, get inside before we get arrested.”

Stiles scoots inside the car, sitting down, catching his breath. Derek slides in beside him and immediately pulls Stiles close to him, taking him by the chin and kissing him softly.

Stiles runs his hands along Derek’s cheek, looking him in the eyes. Derek kisses him again; the corner of his mouth, his cheek, his nose, his forehead.

“For a dirty parking lot hookup I’m feeling very loved,” Stiles says offhandedly with a grin. He means it as a joke, but Derek’s eyes soften.

“Shut up,” Derek says. “I’m gonna date the hell out of you.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Stiles runs his hands down Derek’s broad chest, playing with the edges of his henley. “Now when can I see you naked?”

Derek smirks. “At eleven.”

Stiles laughs. “Alright. You can wear _my_ panties, then.”

Derek flicks the come-covered scrap Stiles is still wearing. “You mean these?”

“Mmm, maybe from my other outfit.”

Derek does wear Stiles’ black G-string for his performance, and it does a decent job of coverage, at least until Derek starts dancing for Stiles in the front row and gets _inspired._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I'm on tumblr [here](http://bleep0bleep.tumblr.com) and twitter [ here](http://twitter.com/bleep0bleep) if you want to say hi :D


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